


If You Love Something

by CrossbowDontMiss



Series: This...Thing [3]
Category: Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not actually character death, Pretty much the whole spectrum of human emotion, Right in the Rickyl feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-17
Packaged: 2017-12-07 19:27:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossbowDontMiss/pseuds/CrossbowDontMiss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'I read somewhere,' Carol says. 'If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never yours at all.'</p><p>But Daryl snorts. 'Fuck that," he says. 'I come back, you best put a bullet in me.'" </p><p>In which Daryl gets bitten, and Rick's not ready to let him go. Maybe for good reason. Rick/Daryl slash</p><p>Spoiler: NOT character death. Because I'm a weak human being.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Unthinkable

**Author's Note:**

> Only my second attempt at writing TWD, so no promises. I think I actually caused myself physical pain writing this. I've got mad love for Daryl, but I just kinda wrote it anyway. Go figure.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy!

The group's sitting around the common area eating dinner when Rick comes back in from locking up the other cell block. They're keeping the Woodbury folks in there now that they've cleared it all out, at least during the nights. Everyone feels safer that 'a way.

He takes a look around, and his gut drops to the soles of his boots. "He ain't back yet?" Course, it ain't really a question. He has eyes, and he knows something's missing. Some _one_  is missing.

Daryl.

"Afraid not," Hershel says.

"Maybe he just got sidetracked," Beth suggests helpfully. "Or, you know, carried away hunting."

But Rick shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, he knows better than that. He knows to be back before dark." Except it's already dark out. The sun set more than an hour ago, and Daryl still hasn't come back yet.

He left that morning. Said he was getting stir crazy, was gonna go hunt some squirrels or something. And Rick let him go, because he knows how Daryl gets: restless, jumpy, pacing holes in the floor. He gets this wild look in his eyes…no, Daryl don't take kindly to being caged in, so when he asked, Rick didn't have the heart to tell him no.

That was then, though, and now Rick's strongly reconsidering that position. An anxious Daryl's better than a missing one, and Rick's head's spinning itself out like tires in mud coming up with scenarios, each worse than the last.

"He'll be alright," Carol says. Only, it's hard to take her at her word when she looks just as worried as Rick feels. He's like a brother to her; Rick knows that. But he also knows that he cares for Daryl in ways he can't even begin to explain. He can't rightly put a name to what they are – friends, lovers, partners. All he knows, and all he  _needs_  to know right at the moment, is that he's going out of his damn mind worrying after him.

And there's nothing he can do about it. He can't send his people out after dark; he can't put them at risk like that. He tries making himself feel better, telling himself that Daryl's the toughest son of a bitch he ever met, but that don't do all that much. He ends up deciding, if he isn't back in an hour or two, that he'll go out after him on his own.

Not to say he thinks the others'll let him, not without forcefully volunteering their services.

"Maybe he just realized he wouldn't make it back before night and decided to lay low," Glen says.

If it was anyone but Daryl they were talking about, Rick might be inclined to think that. But it's not. "He wouldn't run the risk of us comin' out to look for him. He'd find a way to make it back in."

He knows they're all just trying to make him feel better, to make themselves feel better, and he's grateful for that. But the more explanations they throw out, the more Rick gets to thinking about the ones they don't.

_Maybe the walkers got him._

_Maybe he's hurt._

_Maybe he's—_

Rick's thoughts are – mercifully – interrupted by the sound of metal doors squealing outside. Daryl took a set of keys with him when he went out, and Rick feels a surge of relief knowing that's gotta be him. And dammit, when he gets hold of him….

The door to the cell block groans open, and Rick starts for it with every intention of raking Daryl's curfew-breaking ass over the coals before he gets more than a few steps inside. It'd serve him right for getting them all bent out of shape.

That plan dies, though, the moment he lays eyes on his wayward hunter.

He's a wreck. There's mud all over him, even though it ain't rained in days, and in the weak light of the lanterns they got going, he sees something looks a lot like blood caked on the right side of his head. The ripped-up shirt he's got tied 'round his middle's the icing on the shit cake, and the copper stain spread out on it makes Rick's blood all go to ice. He knows a makeshift bandage when he sees one, and he knows that's a lot of blood coming through it.

And suddenly, every bad thought and worse scenario comes whipping back through his head like greased lightning. He's frozen, and Daryl ain't moving either, and the only thing going through his head is a frantic, desperate prayer.  _Please don't let him be bit. Please don't let him be bit._

Daryl opens his mouth, and there's a second where Rick's afraid he won't be able to hear him over the sound of his own blood in his ears.

Turns out, he needn't have worried. When Daryl speaks, every damn word comes in loud and crystal-fucking-clear.

"I think I'm bit."


	2. Long Day, Long Night

Daryl no sooner gets those words out – those four damning, world-shattering words – than his legs buckle. And it's almost sick, the way he just sort of crumples to the ground, like he's got no bones, no tendons. Nothing to hold him up, to keep him on his feet.

There's not a snowflake's chance in hell of Rick getting' to him before he hits the ground, but damned if he don't try. It doesn't keep Daryl from falling, landing, grunting in equal parts surprise and pain, but at least he can say he tried.

Whatever good that'll do him.

"Oh God," he hears someone say behind him as he drops to his knees next to Daryl. He thinks it's Carol. Sounds like her. But he's not looking to check. Right then, in that moment, there's nothing more important than the man lying on the ground in front of him.

He reaches for his shoulder. Daryl fell forward, hardly even tried to catch himself it seemed like, and Rick's trying to roll him over onto his back.

Daryl's having no part of it. He don't have strength enough to stay standing, but it seems he's still got enough left in the tank to be stubborn. He jerks his shoulder away, twisting to get his arms under him.

"Hey, now. Easy," Rick says, and he reaches for him again, this time as Daryl's starting to push himself up. He can see his arms shaking and he knows it's just a matter of time before Daryl eats concrete. And maybe it's a moot point, but he'd at least like to spare him that, so he takes him by the shoulders, and he turns him around onto his back and holds him there. "I got you, alright? You just take it easy."

The others are making it over, now. Hershel takes the longest, 'cause his crutches don't make for quick running, but the others make room for him. Rick doesn't see Beth or Carl; he reckons they've taken Judith someplace else, and he's grateful for that.

"Get offa me," Daryl half-growls. The pain and fear in his eyes dulls the edge, though. He tries to push himself up again, but Rick holds him in place with a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't try and move," he tells him. There's already fresh blood on the floor where he landed, and he's gone ashen. Rick's honestly got no idea how he made it this far, but he's got no intentions of letting him push it any further. Things're bad enough as it is.

Hershel's voice cuts through the bustle, calmer than Rick thinks he has any right to be. "I need him up on a bunk. Maggie, get my kit." That's what he's taken to calling their medical supply duffel. Old habits.

"Glen, help me with him," Rick says. His voice comes out pretty damn level, too, considering how hard and fast his heart's pounding. There's a lead weight in his gut and acid in his throat, and  _goddammit, this ain't happening_.

Except it is.

When Glen comes round to his other side and makes to grab his arm, Daryl shrugs him off. "Didn't you hear?" he snaps. "Told you I was bit."

"We heard you just fine." Rick's just choosing to deny what it means. Focus on the task at hand, he thinks. He nods over Daryl at Glen and grabs one of Daryl's arms for himself. He's got his good side, but he's careful anyway, and together, he and Glen ease him up. The weight in his gut settles a little heavier at the sound Daryl makes when they do, quiet as it is, because if just getting him halfway to upright's hurting him, then the next minute or two's gonna be a damn peach. "On three. One. Two. Three."

They haul him onto his feet, and Daryl lets out a stream of curses that don't bear repeating. Not that Rick blames him. Really, it just makes him feel worse.

He puts an arm around Daryl's waist as much for physical support as moral. "You're alright," he says. "You're alright." It tastes a lie on his tongue, but it's the best he's got. "Just a little farther."

Getting him through the cell door's a little bit tricky, but he and Glen manage, and they get him onto the bottom bunk where Carol's just finished putting down some clean sheets. Daryl goes without much fight, even though Rick gets the feeling that's just 'cause he's hurting too bad to put one up. He doesn't even gripe as Glen picks his feet up and puts them on the cot or as Rick pulls the knife belt off his hip. He just lays there, eyes closed, nose flaring, breathing in and breathing out. His breaths are shallow, stuttering, and Rick watches more blood well through the shirt with each one.

Mercifully, Hershel's there now, and there's a chair waiting for him. He sits down, and he gets to work getting that shirt out from around him.

Carol's waiting in the wings with a clean rag when he finally manages, and after a few quick swipes of a knife to lose the rest of the shirt, he presses the rag over a spot on Daryl's side.

Daryl screams. It's held back behind gritted teeth and pursed lips, but it's a scream just the same, and it hits Rick like a physical blow. He doesn't know if he's ever heard Daryl scream like that. Closest he can recall's when they found his brother's hand on that rooftop. Different kind of pain, but strong nonetheless.

He knows it's just reflex when Daryl jerks back and reaches for Hershel's hand. It's no fault of his. Just like it's reflex when Rick grabs Daryl's wrist and pulls it back in front of him.

"You're gonna have to hold him," Hershel says. "Get him on his side and hold him."

And Rick does. He reaches around Daryl's back and pulls him over onto his side, and he keeps one hand on the back of his shoulder. The other goes to holding Daryl's head against the pillow when he tries to crane his neck and see what Hershel's doing.

"Eyes on me," Rick tells him, his voice low. It's just meant for Daryl, anyhow. "Just focus on me." Because Rick can see Carol handing Hershel a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and dread's half the torture. It's bad enough, the way his eyes slam shut and his teeth grit so hard Rick can practically hear 'em grinding when Hershel pours the first splash of it on his side. He flinches so hard,  _Rick's_  teeth click, and he tightens his grip on him a little. "Easy now. Try and hold still." Even though he knows he already is. Like he said: it's reflex. No fault of Daryl's.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hershel's face harden. He makes the mistake of following his gaze to Daryl's side, and immediately wishes he'd followed his own damn advice.

It's a bite. No two ways about it. There's a patch of skin about the size of Rick's palm just flat missing from Daryl's left side, half over the bottom of his ribs and half on the tender part below. It doesn't look too deep, at least, but then, deep doesn't matter. It's a bite, and the damage is done, and Rick feels his heart break into pieces.  _Not again_. He can't do this again. Can't lose someone else. Can't lose  _Daryl_.

He tries not to let it show on his face, even as he feels his eyes start to burn and his stomach start to turn. For all the good it does him.

"Told you so," he says, almost casual, like he's talking about the weather or whether or not he recalled where Rick put the keys. Like he hasn't just been given the death sentence.

"Jesus Christ." He takes his hand from Daryl's head and presses the back of it to his mouth. He can feel something rising up his throat, and he swallows thickly. He can't. He can't lose it, now. "How'd it happen?" He's not sure it's the right thing to ask, but Hershel, even knowing what they know, is setting right back to cleaning out the nasty-looking wound, and Rick'd kind of like to keep his mind off it. Absent any painkillers, it's the least he can do.

Daryl shrugs, only to wince, although it's hard to tell if it's because he shrugged, or because Hershel just pulled a shard of something out of it. "Don't know," he says.

"You don't know?" He tries to manage a chuckle, but it comes out hollow and thin. "Just how'd you manage that?"

"Bank gave out over by Yellow Jacket. Slipped and cracked my skull—" he hisses and jerks as Hershel does something with his bite he doesn't much like, and Rick just holds him tighter, "—on a stump, blacked out. Woke up—shit!" He jumps like he's been shot, twisting around as well as Rick'll let him trying to see what Hershel's doing to his side. "Dammit, what're you doing?"

"We need to clean this wound out," Hershel replies steadily.

Daryl scowls. "What for? It's a damn bite. Yer just wastin' your time; I'm dead already. Just leave me be. Or better yet, put a bullet in me." He sounds annoyed with them, put out.

Underneath it, though, Rick can see something else. Sure, he's actin' tough, but really, he's…he's scared. It's in his eyes. He's scared, and he has every right to be.

That doesn't mean Rick doesn't want to help. "You ain't dead yet," he says, and that's just that, because he's not. He's not dead; Rick can't let him be dead. Not Daryl. Not like this. So even if he's right, even if they're just wasting their time, he doesn't rightly care. "You don't even know how you got bit. What's to say it was even a walker that did it?" He knows that's grasping at straws, but straws are all he's got, and he'll hold on 'til the last.

Daryl's face twists painfully, but it's hard to tell if it's for the question, or 'cause Hershel's taking a pair of tweezers to his side again. "There was one in the creek bed when I woke up."

"And it bit you?"

"I told you I don't know," Daryl snaps back. Rick won't take it too personal, though. If there's a time a man's allowed to lose his temper, he figures this is it. "By the time I came to, the damn thing was already eatin' something else. Coyote or something. Damn thing didn't give to shits about me."

There's a sudden jolt of  _something_  through Rick's chest. Not quite a lightbulb, but an inkling. A suspicion.

He doesn't get the time to ponder it, though. Hershel's got a knife out, now. There's bits of torn skin hanging off the edges of the wound, and Rick realizes with a sick turn of his gut that Hershel means to cut them off.

Suspicions can wait. He holds Daryl a little tighter in anticipation of what he's fairly certain's about to be a hell of a southward turn in Daryl's already bad day. It's one thing for Daryl to be twitching around alcohol and tweezers, but with a knife that close to him, he's not taking chances.

It's a good thing, too, because when Hershel takes that knife to him, Daryl wants no part of it. Glen's down at the bottom of the bunk holding his legs, and Rick's got him by the shoulders holding him on his side, keeping his hands up in front of him and his head down on the pillow. And Daryl's bucking and twisting, not so much trying to turn himself loose Rick thinks, as just get the hell away from Hershel, but they've got him well enough that he's got nowhere he can go.

"Let me go," Daryl grinds out, voice high and tight. "There ain't nothing for it. Just let me go." It's the closest thing to begging Rick thinks he's ever heard from him. And he gets it. Shit, he gets it. If that's really a bite from a walker, then they're putting him through this for nothing, and there's a part of him that says they should just leave him be like he's asking. Don't waste what time he's got left poking and prodding him.

"Alright," he says. He swallows thickly, pushes himself up a little higher on his knees. "Alright, Daryl, if you can tell me flat out you know it was a walker took a chunk out of you, I will. If you can look me in the eye and tell me you  _know_  that bite's a walker bite, I'll do whatever the hell you want.

"But if you can't," and Christ almighty, he hopes he can't, "then you gotta let us try. Alright? You gotta let us try." He leans in close, swallows back the lump in his throat and blinks away the moisture in his eyes, and he forces himself to ask, "So you tell now, and you tell me honest: do. You. Know?"

All eyes are on him, on Daryl. Even Hershel's stopped working, because there's not a one of them there that isn't praying for the same thing.

Daryl grits his teeth. "It was there."

"That ain't what I'm asking."

"Dammit, Rick, I—"

"Daryl!" Rick cuts him off, but when he flinches, his heart sinks. They shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be hurtin' him more when all signs point to the worst. But Rick refuses to believe there's not a chance. Maybe it's foolish, maybe it's  _selfish_ , but he  _won't_  believe that's all she wrote until Daryl swears up and down it is. "Do you know?"

There's a long moment where Daryl answer. Rick's heart is in his throat, and he's pretty sure there's not a dry eye in the house. Including his own. None of them want to lose Daryl; he's their keystone. He keeps their shit together when they're all losing it; he keeps them safe, keeps them sane. Rick knows they're all praying just as hard as he is that Daryl says—

"No."

Carol steps a little closer, and Rick glances back to see her eyes wide and red and wet. "What?"

"I said," Daryl's voice catches, and he swallows thickly. "I said no. I'm not—I…I don't know."

"Wait, so you're saying—"

But Rick silences Glen with a look.  _Now's not the time_ , it says, and then he turns back to Daryl. "You know we can't just sit back and do nothin' if there's even a chance this turns out okay."

"Can't just act like there's no chance it doesn't, neither," Daryl manages to say. He's pale as a sheet, now, and each shallow, shaky breath puckers the wound over his side. Rick can feel his bare skin warm under his hands, and he hates it, because he knows what a fever means. "Soon as I kick it, you gotta—"

" _If_  something happens, I'll do what I gotta do," Rick tells him. And he will. It might kill him, too, but he'll do what needs doing for all their sakes.

That seems to settle Daryl down a little, like Rick's just promised away a threat. Leave it to him to be worried about the others when there's a better-than-good chance he dies tonight.

Rick snuffs that thought out soon as it comes. He can't think like that. Not now, when there's still things to do.

"Hold him still." Hershel's voice cuts through the haze that's settled in the room like a lamplight. The world kicks back into gear, and Rick snaps back into his head. He's got to keep it together.

He tightens his hold on Daryl, and this time, Daryl turns his face into Rick's sleeve.

"Damn idiots," he thinks he hears him mutter. There's a certain relief to it, though, that Rick'll pretend he doesn't hear. He doesn't want to die as much as Rick doesn't want him to. And if there's something that feels a lot like tears seeping into the sleeve of his shirt, well then he'll pretend he doesn't notice that, either.

It's gonna be a long night.


	3. Goodnight (Goodbye)

Daryl passes out not long after that. Hershel's still working on his side when his whole body just goes slack all of the sudden, and there's this moment of panic – Rick thinks his heart might actually stop beating there for a bit – but then he feels the puff of warmth against the crook of his elbow that means Daryl's still breathing, and Rick's heart remembers how to work right again.

It takes Hershel a good long while to finish getting Daryl patched up after that. Aside from the bi—from his  _side_ , he's cracked his skull pretty good on that stump. By Rick's best count, Hershel spends at least ten minutes picking bark and splinters out of the patch of hair over his ear, and another fifteen tryin' to get it stitched up alright. He's got a few other cuts and scrapes here and there, too. None are so bad as to need stitches themselves, but his right shoulder's in rough shape. Probably landed on it when he fell, Rick reckons.

"It'll be a while yet before he can hold that crossbow 'a his," Hershel says as he binds it with a torn pillowcase and some elastic wrap. Rick doesn't think he's ever wished more they had better supplies, because if that shoulder doesn't set right, Daryl might never hold a weapon proper in that hand again.

"Probably still shoots better left-handed than any of us," Glen mutters. It's not bitter, though. There's this sort of reverence to it. It reminds Rick of something you'd say at a man's funeral, and he's got half a mind to remind them all that Daryl's still alive and kicking, and that he's staying that way if Rick's got anything to do with it.

Carol's got sad eyes as she watches Hershel work. "It'd break his heart," she says.

They don't try putting him on his side again after that.

By the time Hershel finishes up, Daryl's already running a fever. Not a high one, not yet, but his face is flushed and he's warm to the touch. Getting some antibiotics into him turns out to be a trick, because he's not waking up for nothing – truth be told, Rick's not inclined to try too hard; he figures let the poor man sleep, if that's what his body wants – but Hershel crushes one of the pills up in some water and they manage to get it down a in few mouthfuls, one at a time.

Most everyone's cleared out by then. It's not that they don't care about Daryl; Rick knows they do. They all do. It's just that there's nothing they can do, and those cells are awful small. One by one, they trickle out, 'til it's just Rick, Hershel, and Carol. Then it's just Rick and Hershel. Then it's just…Rick.

He's sitting on the stool Hershel left behind. It's hard as stone and the edges bite into the backs of his legs, but he barely even notices. He's too caught up watching the rise and fall of Daryl's chest, and he's breathing right there with him. Every breath Daryl takes, Rick can take another; every stutter and catch, and Rick feels his throat tighten.

There's no telling how long he sits there. Long enough for his legs to start tingling and his backside to go numb, he reckons, but he can't rightly say more than that. Hour, maybe. Maybe two. It doesn't really matter, anyhow. He's got no place else to be. Everything's quiet. Beth's lookin' after Judith, Michonne's out on watch, and all the Woodbury folks're being looked after. Far as Rick knows and cares, the only person that needs him right at this very moment's lying in that bunk.

"How's he doing?"

Rick's too distracted to give a proper start, but he does glance over towards the voice. Carol's standing in the doorway, a big metal mixing bowl in her hand. Maybe it's just the light – the one lamp sitting over on the shelf can only do so much – but she looks older than he's ever seen her.

He reckons he doesn't look much better. Probably even looks worse.

He frowns, running his hand over his face like he can smooth away the worry lines and haggard look. "He's still breathing."

"Well, that's something," Carol says. Rick doesn't think anyone in this life can ever be accused of being an optimist, but Carol's about as close as it comes. She's got a knack for finding silver linings.

Rick wishes he had that knack. He could use it right about now. "Yeah." His voice is hoarse; it's like swallowing razorblades just getting past the lump in his throat. "Yeah, it's something." He's not one to be ungrateful. It just seems like God's pissing on him without even the decency of calling it rain, and even if he's grateful for each and every rise and fall of Daryl's bandaged chest, knowing it could stop at any time's enough to drive him insane.

Carol's footsteps are quiet, but in the silence of the cell, they might as well be gunshots. She ends up standing next to Rick, and she's quiet for a minute, but then, "You really think he's got a chance?" she says.

There it is. The question he's been putting off answering. He'd seen it in Glen's eyes before, could practically hear it echoing out of everyone's heads.

He sighs, and it feels like a little bit of his life goes with it. Ten years, gone. He'd give 'em twice over again to make this alright. "I don't want to get anyone's hopes up."

"But," Carol prompts, because there's one in his voice; Rick just wasn't going to say it.

Might as well now, he figures. " _But,_ " he picks at a hangnail and resists the urge to chew at it with his teeth, "it just don't make sense."

"What?"

"His story. 'Bout waking up to that walker." When he glances over, Carol's look tells him she still needs a little explaining. He doesn't mind. Truth be told, it feels good saying it. Like saying it can make it so. "When was the last time you saw a walker take one bite outta someone and turn up its nose? He wasn't exactly puttin' up much fight, according to him."

"You think he was lying?" Carol asks.

Rick shakes his head. "That ain't what I'm thinking." Not after Daryl looked him straight in the eye like that. 'Sides, if Daryl was gonna lie about something, he'd say it wasn't a walker that bit him, not the other way around. Daryl's not the sort to be ambiguous. "He said there was something else had its attention. Coyote or something."

Another glance. This time, he can see it: she's catching on. Her eyes are just a little brighter, but not by much. Silver lining or not, she doesn't dare hope. It's a hard thing to come by these days. "You think it was the coyote that got him?"

He wants to say yes. Wants to say that's exactly what he's thinking, what he's  _prayin' for_  with every last bit of faith he's got left. But like he said: hope's a hard thing to come by these days. So, instead, he drops his head to his hands – it's gettin' awfully heavy – and tries to pretend the world's not crashing down around him. "I don't know," he whispers, and even to him it sounds ragged. Broken. "I just…." He lifts his head, turning to look at Carol, and he don't feel so bad about his eyes burning when he sees tears in hers. "It can't end like this. Not for him. He deserves better." Because in Rick's head – and yeah, in this world, a man can't help but think about this sort of shit – Daryl dies one of two ways: old age, sittin' on a porch somewhere cleaning that goddamn crossbow, because not even a bona fide zombie apocalypse's a match for that crazy son of a bitch; or in some wild blaze of glory, because if he's going out, Rick can only imagine he ain't making the trip alone. Daryl told him himself, one night after a close call, that a few dozen walkers'd make a fine swan song.

He never pictured it like this. Never pictured he'd be lying on some cot in a prison, restless with fever and not even a handful of walkers to boast about on his way down. One fucking walker. No fight, no nothing. Just one lousy walker, and he's got to watch this man, the strongest man he knows, the man that's saved his damn life more times and in more ways than he can count…he's got to watch him die? No, he's not ready to accept that. He  _won't_  accept that.

As if reading his mind, Carol puts a hand on his shoulder. It's small, thin, but there's a strength there that Rick only wishes he had. He reaches his own hand up to cover it, and she squeezes his shoulder gently.

"I read somewhere…one of Dales books, I think."

Rick chuckles despite himself. He never managed to read one of Dale's books; always had something else to do. But he's heard stories. He doesn't reckon he was missing much.

"Anyhow," Carol continues, and her voice is soft and soothing, even for the tears choking it up a bit, "I don't remember much, but I remember in the back of one of them…it said something like, 'If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, it's yours forever. If it doesn't, then it was never yours at all.'"

Rick's about to say something – something he'd probably have to apologize for later, if he's being truthful, but what she's asking, indirectly as it is, is something he's not ready to do – when he's cut off unexpectedly.

"Fuck that," Daryl says. He's looking at them with glassy, fever bright eyes and a pale imitation of his usual crooked simper. "I come back, you best put a bullet in me."

And color him fickle, but Rick's too happy to see him awake again,  _alive_ , to care much about what he's saying. Even if it's not too different from what he was about to chew carol out for.

By some miracle of determination and denial, he manages a smile, leaning forward to rest a hand on Daryl's bandaged brow. It's gotten warmer since last he checked; he can feel it through the gauze, and he feels his stomach wrench. He keeps his smile, though.

"You came back once already," he says. "Saved my life, as I recall." That day of the Governor's attack. If Daryl hadn't come back with his brother, Rick would've been dead as a doornail, no two ways about it. It's like he says: Daryl's saves his life more times than he can count. He just wishes there was something he could do to return the favor.

Daryl lets out a chuckle. Least, Rick thinks that's what it was supposed to be. Comes out sounding more like a cough, and it must tweak something the wrong way, because Daryl grimaces and curls his good arm tenderly around his belly.

"Try not to move too much, alright?" Rick's seen the way that wound on his side pulls when he breathes; it's straddling his ribs, and even though it's not bleeding quite so openly anymore, it  _is_  starting to spot through the bandage. Red and yellow alike; he's not sure which's got him worried more. "Best keep from aggravating that side of yours." He can't quite bring himself to call it a 'bite'. Feels like it'd be admitting to a lost cause.

Wisely, Daryl bites back a chuckle this time in favor of a wry grin that looks pulled so tight and so thin, Rick's half expecting it to shatter any second. "Ain't like it's gonna kill me," Daryl mutters.

Rick can tell he's being ironic, and this time, he actually does start to say something – last person he needs to hear talking like that about Daryl is Daryl himself, dammit – but Carol's hand tightens over his shoulder briefly. Not so much a warning as a friendly reminder. This is no time for picking fights.

So, he chokes it back down, and settles for something else instead. "Nothing's killing you, you hear?" he says. It's not quite the snap he was going to go with, but it's firm in its own right. "It ain't gonna happen."

Daryl looks a little surprised for a second, but then his face kind of softens. The smile's not so wry anymore, and through the pain and fever clouding his eyes, Rick can see something looks a lot like genuine gratitude. "Always did have a problem with authority," he says, and Rick's own smile becomes a little less taut.

"Not with mine." And he stands up on stiff legs to lean over and press a kiss to the top of Daryl's head, just above the bandages. When he sits back down, he smoothes over the spot with his thumb. It's not sappy, not the coddling someone like Carol or Beth'd probably give him, but it's right for them. Everything else is wrong, but at least this…this  _is_  right. "You go on back to sleep."

Because he can tell Daryl's fighting it. His eyes are narrower than usual, and it looks like he's fighting just to keep them in focus. And maybe Rick's being selfish with this whole thing, but he's not selfish enough to deny him some peace. Especially not when he's hurting like he is.

But Daryl's nothing if not stubborn. "You too," he says. His words are a little slurred, a little rasped, but there's life in them yet. "Look like shit."

"That make you the pot or the kettle?"

"Pot," Carol supplies, somehow both helpfully and helplessly. It's the first word she's gotten in since Daryl woke up.

Rick knows it's 'cause she trying real hard not to cry in front of Daryl.

Daryl just nods, except it's hard to tell how much of it he means to do and how much of it's his head listing to the side. Rick reaches around the pillow and holds it just in case, brushing his fingers lightly through the softer hair behind Daryl's ear. And that's playing dirty, because Daryl's eyes are as good as closed after that.

For a second, Rick thinks he might be asleep again, but then his lips move just a little, and he mumbles something. It takes Rick a minute to figure out what he's saying.

"Say g'night t' Lil Asskicker for me."

"'Course," Rick manages to say, even though his voice feels about as steady two-legged stool. "I'll tell her."

Daryl mumbles something else that Rick doesn't even bother trying to translate, and then he's out. And suddenly, Rick's left fighting to keep it together, because he's got this terrible, terrible thought. He can't help thinking, when Daryl said to tell Judith good night…

It sounded an awful lot like 'goodbye'.


	4. Can't Let Go

The fever spikes early that next morning.

It's been a little over six hours since Daryl got back, since this whole nightmare started, and Daryl's been fading in and out the better part of the night, blinking awake just long enough for Rick to get some water and maybe another dose of antibiotics in him before he's right back out again.

Except he's not out, not really. The fever's got him restless, twisting and squirming and kicking off the covers, only to wind up waking himself up shivering. Rick tries to keep him still as best he can, on account of his shoulder and side being in such a state as they are, but there's only so much he can do without doing more harm than good. More often than not, he just ends up talking to him, quiet, hushed tones, and running a cool wet washcloth over his face until he settles back down.

Hershel'd come in a few times to check on Daryl. First time hadn't been so bad, but the second, he'd gone to change Daryl's bandage. Now, Rick was no doctor, but he knew when he saw all the sickly acid yellow mixed with the blood on the bandage and the way the skin around the wound practically glowed red that Daryl was in trouble. Hershel hadn't said anything to that effect, but then, he didn't have to. Rick could see the grimness in his face and the sadness in his eyes, and he knew.

Eight hours, Jenner said. That was the longest anyone'd ever lasted with the bite. Maybe Daryl could make it longer, but if this really was a walker bite, then the clock was running down. Two hours.

The third time Hershel came by, he'd checked his temperature and gone through the whole song and dance, but he really just came by to tell Rick he needed to get some rest and food in him before he ended up lying on a bunk himself. Rick had kindly refused and just as kindly told Hershel to please, get the hell out, unless he had some other business to be doing there with Daryl.

He felt a little guilty about it afterward, muttered an apology the next time Hershel stopped in, but he was glad when Hershel didn't stick around to chat after.

It was Carol that came up to bat the next time. Rick had just finished choking down the lunch Beth brought him – it tasted like sawdust and went down about as easy as a mouthful of sand – when she rapped her knuckle against one of the bars.

He had half a mind to shoo her off. Last thing he needed was another conversation like the one he had with Hershel. A little bit of boot leather wasn't what he had in mind to wash the taste of sawdust out of his mouth.

But he didn't. It wouldn't 'a been fair to her. She loves Daryl, too, and he reckoned, with what little mind for reason he had left after that last God-awful sleepless night, that she had as much right to be in there as he did. The others probably did, too.

Baby steps, though.

So, he nodded, because he didn't much trust his voice at the moment, and she smiled softly and came in, because she understood just fine. She always did.

"Brought some fresh water," she said as she joined him by Daryl's bed. Her voice was quiet, no doubt trying not to wake the others. He didn't even ask what she was doing up this time of morning. Sure enough, she had another bowl tucked under her arm, and Rick could see the beads of sweat rolling off it. The last of the water went tepid a little while earlier, and Rick hadn't been able to bring himself to leave long enough to get another.

And yes, he knows damn well how it sounds, how he's acting. A little bit crazy, and  _more_  than a little bit selfish. He's hanging around this cell like a junkyard dog on a chain, never making it a few steps beyond that door and growling at everyone that passes, but he can't help it. He wasn't there for Lori, not when she died or even really before that. He's not making that mistake again.

Whatever happens, he's not going anywhere.

Which is why, when Carol put her hand on his shoulder and suggested she take over for a while, it took a lot more effort than it should've to keep from snapping at her. And he felt guilty about that, too – still does – but like he said: he just can't help himself. He's wound too tight, feels like a rope about to snap, and he's doing everything he can to keep himself together, because he  _needs_  to keep it together, but it gets harder every time he hears Daryl let out one of those damn near pitiful sounding groans in his sleep or flinch or wince or do anything that's not  _waking the hell up,_  fine and dandy.

"I'll be alright," he said instead. "I can't go until…" Until what? Until he dies? Until he comes back? Until he miraculously recovers? "While he's like this." That'd have to do.

It did. Nothing seemed to be going right for him, but at least he got that. Carol let it go, didn't push any more than that, and after a few minutes of not-uncomfortable silence, she got up, patted his shoulder, and left.

That was a good half hour ago. No one's been in since, and Rick's been passing the time going between pacing, brooding, and trying to cool the fire burning under Daryl's skin.

He's wringing the washcloth out over the bowl Carol brought. The water's still cool enough, Rick thinks, and he turns back around in the stool to face Daryl. He's got his brows all drawn in again, and he's taken to tossing and turning again, and muttering in his sleep. Rick can't quite make out what he's saying, but he'd bet good money it's nothing pleasant. Not with the way his lips're pulled down.

Sighing, he props one arm on the bed and leans a little closer. When the rag first touches to Daryl's head, he flinches, even still asleep, but Rick's gotten used to that. "You're alright," he says, even if Daryl's still out cold and doesn't hear a word of it. "You're alright."

But Daryl doesn't settle down like he usually does. His eyes screw up, and Rick sees the muscle in his jaw stand out taut like he's in some sort of pain. Probably is, Rick realizes with a sick sort of twist in his gut. And that kills him, because there's nothing he can do about it but just keep smoothing over the tight lines on his face and wish like hell he could take his place.

It doesn't help. He's not expecting it to, but it really, really doesn't. Matter of fact, it looks like it's getting worse. Daryl starts squirming a little more. His legs kick under the sheets, and his fingers twist in the fabric. His mumbling gets louder, clearer, and even though Rick can't make out the lion's share, he can pick out the odd word.

"Girl," he says, voice barely even a whisper, and Rick thinks he might see his eyes open a little, but then they're right back closed again. "Lost…little girl." And this time, Rick definitely sees his eyes peel open, bleary and unfocused, before they slide back closed. Daryl's head lolls a little to the side, and Rick sets aside the rag in favor of tipping his head straight again and half-holding, half-cradling it there. "Tried...t' find…Rick an' I, we…" Daryl's eyes widen a little bit, and Rick can see the haze in those blue orbs. They're glassy, and even though Rick's looking down at him and there can't be more than a few inches between their faces, Daryl's eyes can't seem to track him. They just kind of rove, lazily, and his breath picks up.

He kind of drifts off after a second, though, his eyes narrowing to slits, and Rick thinks he's done. Part of him's relieved; Daryl's been getting less and less coherent each time he wakes up, and he's not sure what he's got in that head of his right now. What little he could make out of what he was saying didn't make much sense at all.

Before he gets a chance to try and make heads or tails of it, though, Daryl suddenly gives a start. He jerks back, high, reedy breaths breaking from his lips, and it's like he's trying to scramble up away from something, trying to reach for something else, but there's nothing there. Nothing but Rick, and he's got his hands full holding Daryl back to the bed.

"Hey," he says, more than a little bit frantically. Daryl looks scared about something, and whether he's imagining it or not doesn't make much difference to Rick one way or the other. He's got one hand on his good shoulder, holding him down to the bunk, and he's trying to grab Daryl's arm with the other. "Hey, hey, hey, you're alright. It's okay, you're alright." But Daryl's not listening. "Daryl!"

That does it; Daryl stops. Freezes, like Rick's just dumped that bowl of cold water on him. Except that gives the impression he comes to.

He doesn't.

He's still got this far-off look in his eyes when he stops, and Rick can still feel his heart beating ninety to nothing against his hand. His breath's quick and shallow, and his eyes, glassy and fever-bright, keep darting around like he's looking for something.

Finally, though, they make it around to Rick, and he blinks. "You find her?" he asks. His voice is weak, rasped with disuse and his drawl's even thicker than usual.

Rick frowns. "Find who?"

Daryl furrows his brows deeper – Rick hopes it's not screwing up the stitches on his head – and it's like he's having a hard time getting his thoughts together. "Sophia," he says finally, except it almost sounds like a question. He's not sure. He's confused.

It hits Rick like a punch to the gut. Because he's not just confused; he's delusional. And that before, that wasn't just a dream. He's hallucinating. He's out of his head, and Rick feels his heart sink like a goddamn stone straight to the soles of his boots, because he remembers…he remembers Jim. What happened to him. The boat.

"Did you find her?" Daryl asks again.

There's a knot in Rick's throat damn near the size of Texas. His eyes are burning, and suddenly, he feels like someone's hollowed him out and filled him with cold lead. He feels sick, and there's something tight in his chest that's making it hard to breathe. He wants to cry, scream, grab Daryl and shake him and tell him to snap out of it now, goddammit, that he can't  _do this_.

But he can't do that.  _Won't_  do that, because it won't do any good. He can't lose it now. So he scrubs his hands over his face and forces himself to smile, even though it feels like his face is cracking. "Yeah," he lies through his teeth, and  _God_ , it hurts. "Yeah, we found her."

Daryl relaxes a little. "She alright?" He says it like he's trying not to let on that he cares, which strikes Rick as funny in a heartbreaking sort of way. Even like this, Daryl's a stubborn son of a bitch. Tough as nails. Can't let anyone see him care, even though everyone knows he does.

Rick nods and hopes like hell it doesn't look as shaky as it feels. "She's fine."

Daryl immediately starts to sit up. "Where is—" but he flinches back, almost violently, when Rick reaches to stop him. It's not even subtle, like his usual shy-aways. He honest-to-God turns his head and lifts his hand to cover his face, like he's waiting for a smack that, as far as Rick's concerned, isn't  _ever_  gonna come.

His chest tightens, but he holds his smile in place by sheer force of will. With slow, deliberate movements, he takes Daryl's hand in his and eases it away from his face. Daryl fights him for a second, much as he can, but he's got no strength left. The fever's taken everything he had.

"Easy now," Rick says, and with his free hand, he picks the rag back up and makes to wipe the newly-beaded sweat from Daryl's face. He's burning up, now, and Rick feels his breath catch and his body tense when he goes to touch him. "I'm not gonna hurt you. You know that." And slowly,  _gently_  he starts to run the washcloth over his face. "Just gotta clean you up."

"Fell in th' creek," Daryl mutters, and he lets his head sink back into the pillow. Rick's not sure if that's 'cause he's relaxing, though, or if he just doesn't have it in him to keep holding it up. "Damn horse…and Merle—"

Judith crying cuts him off, and damned if Daryl doesn't jump like he's been shot. He jerks up, and it's all Rick can do to catch him before he gets halfway to upright.

"Lil'…" But Daryl trails off, and he gets this weird sort of lightbulb look on his face, like he's just realized something awful. He turns his head, and for the first time, Rick feels like he's really looking at him.

He wishes he wasn't.

"I ain't right," Daryl whispers, and oh God, he looks like the world just dropped out from under him. He starts to sit up, and it's so sudden and Rick's so caught up in what's happening that he can't stop him. He doesn't make it too far, anyway; his side must stop him, because his hand goes to rest on his bandage. He looks down at it, then looks back up, and there's…there's  _fear_  in his eyes. Visceral, gut-churning, heart-stopping  _fear_. "Rick, I ain't—"

This time, it's Rick that cuts him off.

"You're fine," Rick tells him, steady as he can. He's not real sure who he's trying to convince, but he's giving it his all. He moves from the stool to sit on the bed. He curls a hand around the back of Daryl's head, cupping his neck firmly, and brings their heads together. He tries everything he can to ignore the heat seeping through the scratchy gauze bandages around his brow. "You're fine, okay? Ain't nothing wrong with you. It's just a fever. You're gonna be alright."

But Daryl's shaking his head against Rick's, and he's holding onto Rick's arm with the hand that's not tied up in the makeshift sling. "Can't be here," he's mumbling. "Ain't safe being here. Not when I—"

"Hey, no," Rick says. "You can't talk like that, you understand? I won't let you talk like that."

"Judith." Daryl says it like a plea, his voice wavering, and Rick can feel him shaking despite the heat he feels coming off him like a damn furnace.

"She's fine. Everyone's fine."  _Everyone_. Rick doesn't think he could stand it to be any different. Not after everything they've been through. He can't lose Daryl.

He's careful when he pulls Daryl close. Mindful of every cut, every scrape as he wraps his arms around him. Gentle when he holds his head against his shoulder and presses his lips to his hair. "Just go back to sleep," he says, and this time, he's the one pleading. Because even his restless sleep's better than this. Better than seeing the fear in his eyes, better than knowing every breath hurts him and at the same time praying for each and every one. "Everything's gonna be fine. Just go back to sleep." And spare the both of them this eighth level of hell they've landed in.

Daryl wants to argue; Rick knows he does. He's stubborn like that, and Rick loves him for it. But the fever really has taken all he's got. He mumbles a little more, a few curses, a few 'idget's and a few things Rick can't quite make sense of. But finally,  _finally_ , Rick feels him go slack. His head lolls against Rick's shoulder, and his breathing evens out just a little.

Rick doesn't let him go, though. He knows he should, but he doesn't. Can't.

He can't let him go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really appreciate the comments, folks. Keep 'em coming! It's the only way I know you like the story. ;)


	5. Holding Out

It's almost dawn.

Rick's been watching the clock. Seven-and-a-half hours since Daryl got back. Seven-and-a-half hours of hell, and every damn second feels like a year being pulled out of him. Ripped out of him and shredded. He hates each one that passes and at the same time, each one that hasn't. Because these thirty minutes could be all he's got with Daryl, but at the same time, they're all that's standing between him and knowing for sure.

It's the not knowing, see, that's the hardest part. If he knew, he could say goodbye. He could say all those things he never got to say to Lori, all those things he wants Daryl to know but couldn't quite bring himself to say. He never was one for talking; he was more about action. More about  _showing_  how he feels than telling, and Daryl…Daryl understood that.

Under _stands_  that, he corrects himself. He's not dead and gone. Not yet.

That's the thing. There're all these things he knows he should say, knows he'll regret not saying if the time comes, just like he does with Lori. But at the same time, saying it feels like giving up. Feels like throwing in the towel, throwing  _away_  any chance he's still holding onto that Daryl comes out of this.

And there's still a chance, he tells himself. Daryl's made it this long. The fever's high –  _really_  high – but Rick tells himself that could be anything. He's no doctor, but it's pretty damn clear to anyone with eyes that Daryl's wound's infected. It's all red and swollen, and when Hershel came by last to check the bandages, there was a bit of a stink to it made Rick's stomach turn a little.

"Infection's getting worse," Hershel said as he checked over it. "We'll need to drain it." Rick hadn't known at the time what he meant, but a half hour later, Hershel'd done some jerry-rigging with some IV tubing, a knife, and a mostly empty water bottle, and Rick got himself a pretty good idea. "I'm not sure how much good it'll do him; it might be systemic."

Rick didn't have the presence of mind just then to ask for an explanation. Probably wouldn't have understood it anyway. But he did know enough to know that, even though Hershel said it like a bad thing, maybe it wasn't all bad. "Could that be what's causing the fever?" he asked. Wasn't great, but it was something. Infection's better than a walker bite, better than a death sentence.

Hershel must've known why he was asking, though, because he'd frowned that sad old frown of his. "Rick," he said, "even if it's not a walker bite, it doesn't look good. Could be the infection gets him. Bad as this fever is, if it's not the bite, there's something else evil happening inside 'a him."

"You sayin' there's no hope, then?" It came out like an accusation, like a knife or a gunshot meant as much to hurt Hershel as it was to defend himself.

Hershel didn't rise to it, though. If anything, he just got sadder, steadier. The stone standing fast against a raging river. And when he spoke, his voice was quiet, but no less firm for it. "I'm sayin' not to build it up too high."

Rick felt a little like that river, then, rushing and running over without a clue as to where he was going or why. All he could do was move forward, keep going with this until the end of the line. "He's made it this far," he said. "That scientist back Atlanta I told you about…he said longest anyone's ever lasted's eight hours. Daryl's gone seven, and that's not counting what it took him to get here. That's got to mean something."

But Hershel just reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, looked him dead in the eyes, and said, "Means he's strong. No matter what, you remember that." And then he sighed, and he stood, leaning heavier on his crutches than Rick thought he ever had. "I'm sorry, Rick. I truly am, but only time's gonna tell whether or not that's enough."

Rick hadn't known what to say to that, so he hadn't tried. He'd just turned away, back to Daryl, back to the flushed, sweat-sheened face of yet another person he loved and failed to protect, and listened to the steady click of Hershel's crutches moving away.

He hasn't moved in the half hour since. Just been sitting here, staring. Watching. Praying. Seconds tick by like decades, and Rick feels old. Older than he ever has.

It's unbearable.

"Christ..." The word slips from his lips on its own, soft and hoarse. In the quiet of the prison this time of morning, though, it might as well be a gunshot. He buries his head in his hands, his elbows on the side of the bed, because he just can't stand to hold himself up any longer. His scruff's rough against his hands as he rubs them over his face, and the lump in his throat feels like a wad of sandpaper. "I can't do this. I can't." He's shaking his head; the movements are jerky. His whole body aches, sitting here for hours like this, but he can't even care. "First Sophia, then Lori…I can't just sit here an' watch you die. You're better'n this.  _Stronger_  than this. You're the strongest one of all of us….always have been. You can't—" His voice catches, and somewhere in the back of his head, he's aware he's crying.

Daryl'd hate it…probably deck him if he saw it, he thinks with a hysterical sort of chuckle that comes out a little too much like a sob. Because he doesn't. See it. Hit him. Doesn't shrug him off, tell him to stop cryin' over him like a bitch and buck up, doesn't do anything that Daryl should do. He just lies there, all sickly-looking and small under those sheets, and sleeps the minutes away. Minutes that might be his last.

The sight burns his eyes; he looks away, blinks a few times, but he still sees it, like it's burned in somehow. He knows, however this turns out, he'll see this in his nightmares. Every time he closes his eyes, he'll see it.

And yet he still turns back, still looks again, because he has to. He clenches his jaw, scrubs his hands over his face, and he blinks again. The tears keep coming, and he doesn't stop them. Couldn't if he wanted to. Instead, he lets one shaking hand fall to Daryl's head, smoothing over the bandages, stark white against Daryl's flushed face, and coming to rest against the pillow, his fingers carded in his hair. He rises on unsteady legs, stiff legs, legs Rick scarcely has the strength to stand on, and leans over him, pressing his lips to his bandaged brow, to his fever-red cheeks, to his lightly-parted lips. And he lingers there, hovering, drinking in the sight of him.

Daryl's not  _pretty_. Not like Lori was – all soft lines and smooth curves. Daryl's rougher. Hard lines and sharp angles, weathered from years of use and abuse. Scarred. Tattooed.

There's something about him, though, something captivating. Something that draws Rick's eyes and holds them there, mapping out every one of those hard lines and committing them all to memory. He's done it before…watching him wake up – the few mornings Daryl's not the first to rise – or catching him when things are quiet and he doesn't think anybody's looking. He knows that face better than he knows his own, and no, no Daryl's not  _pretty_.

But he is kind of beautiful.

Another ragged chuckle breaks from his lips, and he watches a drop of moisture appear on Daryl's cheek that's got nothing to do with sweat. "You'd stomp my ass something fierce if you were awake," he says, and there's a smile on his face as he says it, bittersweet as it is. "Truth be told, I wish you would. Any kind of beating you'd have a mind to give me, carrying on like this, I'd take it in a heartbeat if it meant—" his throat catches again, and he has to clear it, "if it meant you coming out of this alright." He sniffs, taking his hand from Daryl's hair to prop his own head on it. He pinches the bridge of his nose with the other, rubs his forehead, and lets it fall to rest over Daryl's on top of the blankets. He's stopped kicking them off. Stopped moving much at all, these last couple hours. It's strange to see him still. He's too damn used to seeing him pace around, seeing him move. Shit, even when they're sleeping, Daryl's always moving. Rick learned real quick to hold him when they slept, arm around his waist or something, 'else he'd squirm one of them right off the bunk.

Not now, though. Now, he'll shift, squint, murmur in his sleep, but he doesn't move any more than that. Rick's not sure if that's a good thing, if it just means he's sleeping a little more soundly, resting a little better, or if it means he's slipping away.

He tells himself it's the former, if only so's he doesn't lose his damn mind.

And he will. If Daryl…if he…

"Goddammit." This time, it's not even close to a laugh that breaks from his lips. He turns his head into his hand, squeezes like he can force the tears back, but he still feels them wetting his palm. "You can't do this, you hear? I barely kept it together last time, seeing shit that wasn't there. Seeing  _Lori_ , hearing voices on the phone. You're the one kept the group alive. You're the one stepped up." He drags his hand away from his face, sniffing futilely. He's a right mess, but it doesn't matter. Daryl's not awake to see it, no one is. What's worse is knowing they wouldn't judge him anyhow.

He clears his throat, but that wad of sandpaper's lodged in there good, now, so he just gives up and talks around it. "What happens if you're not there? You're the reason we're all still alive today, not me. Every last damn one of us, we owe you our lives. If we lose you…if  _I_  lose you…." He grinds the words through gritted teeth; his jaws clenched so hard, it's a tossup between his teeth and his bones which breaks first. And he can't even finish the sentence, so he just shakes his head. "No," he says. "No, you can't do this. You're gonna be fine. You're the toughest son of a bitch I know, made it out of more binds than anybody…you'll make it out of this one, too." He nods, then, stiffly, because that's just how it's gonna be. "You'll see. Day or two, a week…however long it takes. You'll be alright."

He believes that, too. He has to. Hershel doesn't, even Carol's got  _goodbye_  in her eyes when she looks at him. But Rick…Rick'll hold out hope until God himself pries it out of his fingers.

He holds onto Daryl just as tight.


	6. Mine Forever

****

It's not Rick's intention to fall asleep.

Hell, he's not even really aware that he's done it, until suddenly, he feels something on his shoulder, and he starts awake with a grunt. It takes him longer than it should to realize he's on a stool, and by then, he's already knocked it off balance, so he ends up abandoning ship and pushing himself to his feet just in time for the stool to clatter to the ground like a goddamn gunshot.

"Sorry," Beth practically squeaks from behind him. She's holding a blanket in her small hands that Rick gets the feeling she'd been aiming to put on his shoulders, and her eyes are wide as silver dollars. "I just thought you might be getting cold."

And right about then, Rick gets cold alright. But it's not the sort of cold a blanket can cure. It's a cold that grips his bones, that shoots like ice through his veins to settle in a heavy weight in the pit of his gut. It's the cold that makes his hair stand on end and everything freeze.

"How long?" he chokes out, and he's got to hold onto the top of the bunk, because his head's spinning. Standing too fast, missing meals, and an oncoming heart attack'll do that to a fella, he reckons.

Beth blinks at him for a second, confused, but then she sort of scrambles to look at the clock on the shelf on the wall. It'd probably be a hell of a lot faster for Rick to look himself, but his eyes are kind of blurry, no matter how many times he blinks them, so he's not sure it'd do much.

"It's almost noon," she says finally.

She might as well have punched Rick in the gut.

He doesn't waste time on cursing – he already wasted too much time – just whips around and drops to his knee next to the bunk.

Daryl hasn't moved.

Hasn't stirred.

Daryl's the lightest sleeper Rick's ever known; he'd wake up at the sound of a pin dropping before the damn thing even hit the floor. But Rick just made enough noise to, from the sounds of the footsteps and the shouts outside, bring the whole damn prison running to the cell, and Daryl doesn't even peel a goddamn eye open.

"Rick," he hears Beth say tentatively behind him, but he ignores her in favor of taking a knee by Daryl's bunk. They're well past the eight hour mark, now, and he's almost afraid…Christ, he can't even think about what he's afraid of. Can't even give it that much reality.

It takes him a second to remember how to control his limbs properly, and a second longer still to lift his hand from where it's fallen to the side of the bunk. He tries to ignore how his fingers are trembling when they reach for the hand resting across the blankets on Daryl's chest. He thinks he must've been holding it in his sleep, must've dropped it when he woke, but he takes it back, now, with a sort of sick dread slithering in his gut.

For a second, his hand on Daryl's, the world stops. Rick's only faintly aware of Hershel shooing the others away from the prison cell, of Carol saying his name as she slips inside and Beth slips out. Everything in his world is in at his fingertips, and his whole life rests on what he feels.

It's there.

Rick's not ready to trust it at first – his hands are sweating and shaking enough, it might just be him – but a few seconds and a dozen heartbeats pass, and he can still feel it.

Warmth.

He thinks he might sob, but he's not sure. He doesn't give a damn one way or the other, because it's there.  _He's_  there. Warm. Hot.  _Alive_. And he doesn't give a damn if he looks like a lunatic, but he holds that hand in his like it's the last shell in the ammo box and there's a herd on the horizon, because it's  _real_.

"It's been almost a day." The voice sounds kind of distant, like it's someone else's, except it isn't. "He's not dead."

That seems like such a blunt way of putting it. Three words don't seem to suffice for what's going on right at this moment, but they're all he's got, and he just keeps repeating them, aloud or in his head – he's not rightly sure.

This time, when he feels something settle on his shoulder, he doesn't flinch. He knows it's Carol's hand. She's crying, too. He doesn't look at her – doesn't tear his eyes away from the hitched, but continuing rise and fall of Daryl's bandaged chest under the sheet – but he knows she's crying. And what a pair of damn fools they must look like, he thinks, sitting here carrying on like this, but he can't hardly bring himself to care.

"He's not out of the woods, yet," Hershel says, ever the voice of reason, but Rick doesn't pay it much mind.

"He's not dead," he repeats, because even though it doesn't come close to covering it, he thinks it just about sums it up. He's survived this; he'll survive the rest.

"He's strong," Carol joins in, her voice soft but firm. She's smiling, too, Rick realizes. "He'll be just fine, and we never should've doubted it."

 _Because he's Daryl_  goes unspoken, because it can't be explained. It's just…understood. Daryl can't leave them; Daryl  _wouldn't_  leave them. He'd run through hell and beat the Devil if he had to,  _because he's Daryl_.

The stubborn son of a bitch.

Suddenly, Rick realizes he's smiling too, because his cheeks are starting to burn, and he thinks his lip's split. Too much chewing on 'em, he reckons, but that's alright. It'll heal. It just feels good to smile again.

He leans forward, his knees creaking in protest on the hard concrete floor, but that hardly registers either. One hand still clutching Daryl's – he'll be hard-pressed to ever let it go, he thinks, which might be a fun conversation to have with Daryl when he starts getting back on his feet – he reaches the other to press against one stubbled cheek.

"Fever's gone down," he thinks aloud. Not by much, and if he's being honest, Hershel's right about Daryl still being in the thick of it, but in this life, a man learns to take the small victories. And he does.

The large victories, though…they're even better.

And when Rick, gaze fixed now on Daryl's flushed face, sees a single sliver of blue peel open, he decides this is one of them.

Slowly, surely, the sliver widens, and is joined by another, and after a second, Daryl's brows furrow over half-lidded eyes.

"The hell?" he mumbles groggily, and Rick doesn't think he's ever heard anything sweeter. Daryl's looking with slow, glassy eyes between him and Carol and even Hershel, standing way back in the back of the cell, and then back to Rick. "s'everybody cryin' for?" He looks genuinely chagrined about it, too.

Rick just smiles a little wider, and behind him, Carol lets out a choked little laugh, because, well…that's Daryl.

He doesn't bother wiping his eyes, knowing that particular well's not yet run dry, and instead just sits up a little higher on his knees so Daryl doesn't have to strain his eyes so much. "Look who's back in the world of the living," he says, the backs of his knuckles brushing lightly over the shadow of stubble that's grown on Daryl's cheeks. And it's a sure sign of just how worn out Daryl still is that he doesn't seem to mind in the least.

Worn out as he is, though, he still manages a chuckle, and even it sounds somehow better than the ones before. "Came back after all," he mutters, Rick thinks, because he doesn't have the energy to do anything more.

Rick's alright with that, and as Daryl loses the fight to keep his eyes open again, Rick leans up farther still, to press a kiss to his bandaged brow.

"I reckon this means you're mine forever."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's all folks. Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed it, and as always, comments are much appreciated! :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are much appreciated, and thank y' kindly for reading.


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